By Durin
by Peridot Tears
Summary: Thorin and Kíli are wounded, but hide it. Serious repercussions follow...hurt!Kíli, hurt!Thorin, implied Bagginshield.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I've been doing this for years, and I'm out of clever ways to say this. But no, the original work does not belong to me._

_..._

_A scream tore unbidden as Kíli pounced, sword drawn and slicing through the warg like a hot knife through butter. Flesh, it seemed, was easily cloven. He was beginning to learn that, more than ever, nowadays._

_Pausing briefly to swipe the blood from his eyes, he raised his weapon, looking around for any more enemies. The adrenaline pulsing through him gave him a vision keener than usual, so very meticulous; it was with ease that he spotted the Orcs upon his brother, and with a flash of battle fury he sprang upon it, cutting it down through the neck._

_Fíli gave him a nod before plunging back into the maelstrom._

_And who was next? The wargs and Orcs were coming in by the dozens, and the tide seemed to never ebb. If anything, it seemed to swell ever the stronger...for every foe picked off by the dwarves, three more followed._

_Kíli sheathed his sword as he turned, the weight of it tugging at his back, and with the same motion plucked out his bow and an arrow; without much thought, he loosed it at the warg Bombur was busy fighting, hit it straight in the eye. It howled, momentarily disoriented, and Bofur dashed in to make quick work of it._

_In battle, everything was blood and steel and claws, and the clanging was maddening; but Kíli bore with it. In battle, his focus was strange and alien, a gripping, random rush of mindfulness._

_And so it was no wonder when his gaze pinned on Thorin Oakenshield, pinned the body like one of his arrows, one of which he loosed onto the warg upon him before he ran forward, screaming, to aid his uncle in fighting the Orc riding it._

_He didn't even stop to consider the wound when a fang ripped into his flesh. He would not feel the pain until much, much later._

_The King came first, after all._

_..._

_**PT: I have no idea where I'm going with this fic. Loljk. I'm following a prompt from Tumblr. Bear with me, I just returned to writing. Trying to cash in on the Hobbit onslaught.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Haha...no. I think I used this disclaimer before._

_..._

"Accursed Orcs!" Thorin snarled, wrenching a half-broken blade from his furs; just a fragment, thank Durin.

"It could've been worse," Dwalin said, almost lightly, but not so much that Thorin would lash out at him in his state (though he would never do so). His tone was in itself a stroke of tact, for Thorin did silently agree; it could have. They made it out alive. They were largely unscathed.

'T'was a pity, he thought, that they could not cut down more of the Orcs. But in his mind, even demolishing the whole race would never sate his hunger. So that, for now, is the end of it.

And that was when he felt it.

It was a slight tingle.

Hatred, perhaps.

He shook his head, looked straight forward. Behind him, he thought he heard Bilbo's innocent voice exclaim, but he let that fade away. After fighting the Orcs, they had been riding ceaselessly, for hours. The farther away from the battlefield, the better.

He turned to see Kíli and Fíli running towards him. (Bless the unfettered young, they had taken off to scout as soon as they were able.) News? He didn't even need to ask; they nodded in one direction, to their left and rear, and he nodded back. It takes one to know one—or, in this case, two—and he had known his nephews so long that no words were really needed for communication between them. He had, after all, seen them from the moment they were born, small, fleshy things in his sister's arms.

And these young men—hardly yet pulled from "boys"—were once those small things...

He nodded back at them, their tired faces, understanding them and trusting them, but they elaborated anyway. "Caves," Fíli said. There was a fleck of blood still on his cheek. It was starting to dry and crackle brown. "A good distance ahead, but not too far. They're very well-hidden, in the ground. Small entrance, too. We can afford to stay there for a night." He did not need to raise an eyebrow at the darkening sky; Kíli did that for him.

"We're moving to those caves!" he said, turning. His company, he knew, was in good shape to fight again. But at what capacity? He cast his eyes about, only to find that Gandalf had still not returned. Vaguely, he wondered if the wizard would appear tonight, in the caves. He always found them while they were fighting; why not while resting? "We'll rest there tonight," he continued, projecting his voice. Not that he needed to—everyone's attention was on him.

His eyes flickered from one weary face from another, the adrenaline still fading from his company's veins. From Ori to Fíli to Balin... Thank Durin those caves were not too far. It was a small blessing amongst the terrain.

Away from Orcs. Disgusting things.

Orcs—and something like rage brewed him in anew; but now was not the time. He tamped it down, dissolving into a cold, still fog of focus. The present.

And the hatred seared him still. He stopped.

No.

It was not hatred. Not hatred that refused to settle. It was another feeling...one he knew all too well...

The tingle rose, pitched like a fevering tune.

Pain. Searing, physical pain.

He was wounded. He was wounded?

He dared not look down. But now he felt it. There was a cut on his arm, perhaps. The adrenaline was fading, and his focus was now lingering on his body.

No...not his arm. There were cuts on his arm and chest. He vaguely recalled the face of a War snarling its hot breath in his face, then a flash of silver...perhaps a howl in the background... He had been so caught up in the battle...

The cuts, if they were indeed cuts, were deep. Deep enough to bother him as he went.

He clenched his teeth behind his lips and went on.

...

_**PT: Aha...I do apologize, this is taking a while to kick off. I'll put in more action and drama soon—SOON...I've about as much patience as any reader, which is to say, none at all—but yeah. I was hoping to update a little faster, but, you know, senior year of high school isn't just a bunch of shits and giggles. On the bright side, I came home from a productive day of team practice to find an acceptance letter from a college I really had my eye on. 8D I hope I can update a little faster. There's quite a bit of testing going on right now, but I'm almost out of it. Anyways, thanks to the people who reviewed, most of all!—I appreciate every reader, but, once more, dropping in a word or two is the best thing you can give, aside from critique itself (just got out of a writing slump, remember?). Happy 2013!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I am J.R.R. Tolkien as much as I am Hidekazu Himaruya, Erin Hunter, Kathryn Lasky, Konomi Takeshi, Rick Riordan, Kishimoto Masashi, Luo Guanzhong, or any other person whose works I've butchered with my fanfiction. –poker face-_

_..._

The fire they lit in the cave was small, but more than enough. Personally, Thorin would rather a bonfire, but he knew small blessings when he saw them.

Like how the entire company had gotten away from a fight with few wounds. In fact, after the screech Oín gave when his dislocated shoulder was clicked back into place, came a loud laugh of appreciation. The company was not in bad spirits.

And yet, in his organized mind, the next immediate problem was his—Thorin had not had the chance to look, but he knew that, beneath his clothing, he was bleeding. He was dressed heavily, so that in itself had helped to stem the blood. But he was starting to feel a break in the adrenaline, a sort of exhaustion that suggested lightheadedness, at the edge of his mind.

How much longer could he go on?—he wondered.

He rounded a corner, into a smaller niche of the cave; there was an outcropping of rock that blocked him just so. He wondered if his company would smell the blood, but he had to know, soon, how bad it was.

The stench was overwhelming the moment it hit him; he did not wrinkle his nose at the scent, being more accustomed; the blood, glittering darkly in the vague, stolen firelight, leered at him, and it layered over his chest, his arm; he saw the deep gashes, and only then noticed the cuts in his clothing. Again, he felt the hot breath of the Warg, the screeching flare of some silver blade.

"What've you got there?"

Thorin reeled back, shrank into the shadows and covered the wounds once more, eyes narrowed as a cat's are. But it was only Bilbo—curious, startled Halfling, standing there with all the innocence in the world. Thorin gazed at him for an uncounted matter of moments, before rumbling, "Nothing of interest."

Bilbo wrinkled his nose; he smelled the blood. "What...is that smell?" Worry slid into his eyes as the lights behind him flickered. "Are you all right?"

Though he was speaking softly, he was standing in an area too exposed. Thorin let his eyes dart open in alarm before he reached out and yanked him inwards, hushing the yelp Bilbo managed to stifle.

"Do not," he said, eyes flicking to Bilbo, then the company, then back again, "say a word."

"What's wrong?" said Bilbo, dropping his voice just so. His eyes were round, big. Perhaps a touch frightened.

How could he make him understand?—without a word, for words were not needed, Thorin lifted his shirt again, revealing the gashes. The flashed bloody light in Bilbo's eyes.

Bilbo sucked in a breath, a breath Thorin thought inaudible.

"You will tell no one," said Thorin, though his heart felt heavy with tension.

"Why ever not?" cried Bilbo, then looked back, afraid someone had heard him. Thank Durin, no one turned. But when he turned back, his face was creased with worry, though also with a frown that simply said, _No nonsense._

"Listen to me, Hobbit." Thorin pulled him a little closer, having realized that, yes, his hand had not left the Halfling's arm. He was sure his breath reached Bilbo's face, because those wide eyes were close to his, the size of coins, and he felt his breathing reach his cheek. "I cannot afford to have the journey stop now, and I cannot afford to bring morale down by showing any wounds, any weakness.

"These are scratches compared to what I have had before." But never before had he ever _not _dressed his wounds afterwards.

"But...they know their leader is strong." Bilbo huffed, and it hit Thorin's face. "It won't do anyone any good if your wounds get any worse. It won't help anyone."

"That is why I shall be taking care of them in secret." The answer was so obvious, was it not? "We are close to Erebor. Getting closer every day. We cannot delay. And besides," he added, "the more space between us and the Orcs, the better."

There was then an uncomfortable silence, one punctuated by the little pops and crackles from the nearby fire.

Thorin stared stoically at Bilbo. He had said his piece, after all—what reply would he receive?

But to a certain extent, he had convinced Bilbo. To a certain extent.

"Well"—and here, Bilbo cast his eyes at Thorin's, holding the gaze with a hesitant fervor—"you had better dress them well. Those wounds look nasty." An understatement, and they both knew it.

And then, before they knew it, Bilbo had drawn a hand over the unsightly mess, as if entranced. As if blessing it, almost.

When his hand came away smeared, with a little blood, they both gazed at it.

Then, he was gone. Bilbo walked away, to join the rest of the dwarves by the fire, rubbing his flesh clean in his pocket.

...

It was only later, an hour or so, when the cave was dark with sleep, that Thorin was broken from his reverie. He heard no footsteps, for Halflings are light on their feet. He felt only the invisible sliding of a pouch into his hands.

When it opened, it contained a salve.

...

**_PT: Look, I'm elongating the chapters as I go along. Progresss~ Hope you guys enjoyed, and please do comment. And, more than anything, leave critique, please!_**

**_(Guys, all the testing is over. Competition is coming up, though D:)_**


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